Sacrifice
by aggiemuggle
Summary: How much control does Guinevere exert over Arthur's knights? How is she able to sway Arthur to her side? What role does Lancelot play in her plans? A different look at Guinevere and Lancelot, taken from the 2004 movie.


_i_  
  
They didn't have time for this. There was no time for Arthur's heroics, for his sense of justice and his damnable compassion. There was barely time to save the boy's parents, despicable creatures though they were, much less to save his entire entourage, serfs and soldiers and misled holy men.  
  
There was especially not time to go about breaking into hidden rooms. There was no time to harass monks, nor to save prisoners. It was too cold to bring this girl into the elements, the frozen ground no place for her to rest. They did not have clothing to spare for her, no extra blankets nor wraps nor furs. She was a Woad, a danger to their party, and surely her own people would come for her if she was left in the woods where she belonged.  
  
The wagon would only slow them down. The girl was a mistake, a distraction, and, most importantly, their enemy. She would find a way to pull them apart. Lancelot kept an eye on her, distrusting.  
  
_ii_  
  
Already she was a distraction. It was to be expected, of course. Any beautiful young girl caught up with a pack of knights, no brother or father or husband or master present to guard her honor, would catch their gazes, but this specimen was exceptional. It became obvious that she was a warrior in her own right, and while Lancelot did not think she could truly hold her own in sword-to-sword combat, she projected fierceness, her fingers traveling intelligently over everything they touched, her eyes quick and calculating.  
  
It was winter; she needed more clothing. Lancelot fought the urge to offer her his own furs, reminding himself that he needed to be healthy, to be ready to fight. (He did not admit it even to himself, but he was offering it out of concern for her warmth, not for her immodesty.) It was not seemly that she should call out to the men as they passed, that she should tempt Arthur in what would be his deciding hour.  
  
She had a plan, but he could not yet decipher it. He did not trust her.  
  
_iii_  
  
It was completely illogical that a Roman noblewoman should be bathing her, a common dirty Briton. She was nothing better than a provincial rebel, and Lancelot refused to be taken in by her beauty. She was wilderness embodied, skin glowing supernaturally in the low light of the fire. Her hair fell over her face as she shifted, and she was hidden for a moment. It was easy to imagine her then as a fine lady, born to a life of privilege and propriety. Steam rose up around her, curling her hair, and she conversed quietly with the lady, eyes downcast.  
  
He heard only her voice, not her words, and was entranced, the sound feminine and enticing. It was a luxury in the woods, akin to warm soup after battle, a soft bed coming home, new boots before the old wore out completely. She was musical suddenly, light and easy. She could complete him, he knew, warm his bed and tend his wounds and keep his secrets, if only he would allow it.  
  
Lancelot licked his lips and took a hesitant step closer before she glanced up, purposeful and casual at once. Their eyes met, her gaze glittery and calculating, and he was forcibly reminded of her lies, her trickery, her plots. She had almost ensnared him, caught him in her web; he had nearly given in.  
  
She stared across the clearing, swaying slightly as though hypnotizing him. Lancelot looked away, composing himself, before striding off.  
  
She was attractive, he admitted. This would complicate the situation. Lancelot reminded himself of his distrust, his fear, and went to bed alone.  
  
_iv_  
  
Arthur followed her into the woods, and Lancelot was filled with jealousy rather than fear. He did not know what she was capable of, but he wanted her to do it to him, not to anyone else, not to Arthur. He wanted her for his own.  
  
She disappeared into the mist, meeting his gaze when she glanced back. Lancelot closed his eyes tightly. An eternity passed before he remembered that he was not supposed to want her, was not supposed to wander off in the night after her. She was his enemy, though he knew this only vaguely. Mostly, he knew that he desired her.  
  
_v_  
  
She shot him, the brat's father, and it had been glorious. She was fierce, authoritative and commanding. This woman fought by her own rules, and Lancelot felt his distrust slip a notch where it should have grown. She could turn on them as easily as she could turn for them.  
  
As he stood there, though, both swords drawn and ready, he could only focus on the swirling around her, snow and hair and fabric blowing in the wind. She looked at him, eyes hard, and he held her gaze, unblinking. Everything but her faded to the background, and he idly wondered if she was some sort of witch, that she was overcoming his objections and his defenses so easily.  
  
_vi_  
  
Battle does strange things to people. They were outnumbered, understandably anxious, and she had scorned his offer of help out of fear. She lashed out at him to protect herself, to keep her insecurities hidden, and he would allow her this barricade.  
  
She was glorious while fighting, truly, her bare arms a flurry of movement, her arrows flying sure and fast through the air. She was efficient, unmoving in the face of danger, and the danger was indeed greatest for her. In defeat, she would be taken alive, taken to the enemy, taken. She would be for the men's enjoyment, and then she would be killed.  
  
Lancelot edged forward, aimed truer. He lost a man, a friend closer than blood, but part of him welcomed the sacrifice, knowing that it kept her safe. She was worth the loss.  
  
_vii_  
  
They returned, crossing through the wall, and she turned all of her concentration towards Arthur. Without her influence, Lancelot was left to his own mind, thoughts unsullied for the first time in days, and realised too late his error.  
  
He'd known that her influence over Arthur was dangerous, but not to this extent. He hadn't expected Arthur to stay, to denounce Rome and civilization and all that he had worked towards for ages. Arthur was to go back, to become a strong leader and to live a contented life, thinking of justice and principles and his God. This was not the path of Arthur, staying on this forsaken island and allying himself with rebels.  
  
He saw the way she watched Arthur, following him triumphantly with her eyes. She was possessive of him already, and seemed to laugh at Lancelot, knowing his failure. He had let her win, given her all the power she needed, and she had completed her task. Arthur was divided from his knights, headstrong and determined to throw his life away on this foolhardy ideal. He was a great warrior, and he was knowingly depriving the world of his skills, wasting everything on this local feud.  
  
Lancelot would have killed her that night, crept into her quarters with weapons drawn. He found her bed empty, though, the blankets cold and untouched. She was already with Arthur then, ensnaring him completely. He would not turn from this bond now. Their hope was lost. Lancelot would leave in the morning, and never speak of the loss of his friend.  
  
_viii_  
  
He cannot stay. Arthur understands, though not truly. If he stays, she will forever divide her attention between the two of them, coercing Lancelot with glances and unnoticeable touches and suggestions of ideas, thoughts that will grow and change so subtly that he would ultimately think of them himself. He was protecting Arthur. If they were both there, if they were all three there, she would destroy them, break Lancelot's floundering ideals and ruin Arthur's much needed strength.  
  
With only Arthur to manage, she will live somewhat normally. She will be faithful to him, likely, will bear him children and keep him always. He will save her nation, and she will be his. With Lancelot present as well, she will tear down everything. She has driven him away. They are divided, but not as violently as they would be.  
  
_ix_  
  
It is to no avail. Her pull is stronger than that of safety, than that of freedom, than that of home. Lancelot returns to Arthur, as he always knew he would, and to her, as he always feared.  
  
This battle feels wrong, pointless, wasteful. It is not his fight, and he does not want to be there. It is only when he sees her, fighting and in danger, that he realises his purpose. He is to save her, no matter the cost. So much is brilliantly clear, the knowledge glittering in his mind. She worked at Arthur to save her people, and at Lancelot to save herself.  
  
She meets his eyes, desperate and bloody, and he cannot make himself turn away. He cannot make himself leave. He is leaping forward without his own knowledge, limbs moving automatically, and he cannot save himself while she is in need. He knows otherwise, but his last thought remains unchanged, the sentiment at his own death echoing that of his comrade's: _She is worth the loss._  
  
_x_  
  
It worked better than she could have hoped. The power is overwhelming, the accomplishment and the promise inherent in the man beside her. Guinevere raises her hand with Arthur's, sword clasped between the two of them, and does not count her losses.  
  
Indeed, she does not truly consider any of it a loss. All was necessary.


End file.
